Conference Room
by BookSlut1994
Summary: The conference room after hours is not a nice place to be. Germany /really/ shouldn't have forgotten his scarf. Dark!America, Food-horror, Misuse of conference rooms.


Conference Room

 _-Early Summer? 2016-_

Blatantly political and vaguely sexy Dark!America drabble I made because I was bored. Full-disclosure in case it wasn't obvious, this author is American and none-too-pleased with our dear president. Thought I'd be fair and mention that as it's an _influence_ \- put that aside and you may enjoy pretty countries being subtly nasty in suits.

Germany takes a steadying breath and he traces his fingers over the door to the world conference room, cursing his brother for forgetting his scarf. He frowns when he hears the muffled sound of conversation through the thick wood -hopefully they aren't discussing anything _too_ important- and slides the door open, catching the occupants in mid-conversation.

"- an' we're gonna make Mexico _pay for it."_ America is the first to notice him, looking up, lightning-fast, smirk-sharp. "- oh, hi Luddy," he purrs, "wanna join?" His movie-star smile is too-wide, somewhere south of friendly, his sharp blue eyes darting from Germany to Russia and back again.

Germany _shudders_ at the casual use of his human name- his human _nickname_ \- that only Italy ever calls him; Italy who is his _ally_ , although his mind tacks on layers of meaning- _lover,_ and _friend_ , and snatches of things half-remembered from a life that no-longer exists. The tall nationblinks, hands fisted in his trousers, his blitzed-out mind scrambling for a coherent thought. It's _America_ and _Russia_. _Together._ They're sprawled across the conference table, Russia propping himself up on his elbows, smiling placidly, America using the other nation's thigh as a headrest, a burger in one hand and a milkshake in the other.

"We're not allowed to sit on the furniture," Germany mutters, feeling the redness creep up his neck.

"We're not allowed to sit on the furniture," America mocks. He sits up, takes another sip of his milkshake, looking Germany in the eye as he does it. A small amount dribbles out over his lip and he doesn't clean it up, grinning broadly as it slides down his chin. When he's sitting upright, Germany can see that the buttons of his shirt are done hastily- wrong. America waves the cardboard cup in his face, nearly taking an eye out with the straw. "Want some? It's vanilla."

"N-no. No thank you." He starts backing towards the door. This is a mistake. He'll come back later.  
"Leaving so soon?" Russia's tone is light, friendly, but his expression is the opposite. America slides off his lap, custom-leather shoes meeting the tile floor with a jarringly loud clack. His expression bears more resemblance to that of a petulant child than a dangerous and volatile superpower but there's a flash of something darker in his sky-blue eyes- Germany would recognize it anywhere. He's seen it on England, on his brother- _he's seen it in the mirror_.

America blinks and it's gone- sparked and died like it was never there. His expression is wide-eyed, innocent. "I thought we were friends, Germany _._ " He's using the same babyish whine that he used when Japan didn't want to go to his Christmas party. It's disturbingly effective.

Germany scoots closer to the door, as inconspicuously as he can. "We are," he stammers. "We are friends…"

 _You just terrify me._

America is staring at him, sucking on the end of the straw. When Germany finishes, he slides it out of his mouth with a slick pop. "Oh. _Good._ It's important these days to know who you can rely on... who's _on your team_." He peels back the paper wrapper of his burger, shoves half of it in his mouth, and tears it off- bites, chews, swallows. He's standing so close that Germany can see it moving down his throat. He shudders and tries to move back, but his back is flat against the door and his wrists are at the wrong angle to reach the handle. He takes the burger out of his mouth and shoves the other half towards Germany, smearing ketchup over his face, the sugary-acidic smell assaulting his senses.

"Have some." It's not a friendly request.

Germany opens his mouth and chokes on shitty ground beef, pickles, and plastic cheese. His brain is sending panicked signals to his mouth- _bite, chew, swallow,_ barely computing as he coughs and gags on ingredients that he's pretty sure are banned in his country. When he's done, his throat burns and his eyes water. His mouth is impossibly dry.

America holds out his milkshake cup again, a manic grin on his movie-star face. His voice is sickly-sweet. "Want some?"

Germany grabs it, frantically, gulps down the contents without thinking- anything to get that _taste_ out of his mouth. It tastes like vanilla- _vanilla and something else._ He heaves, but nothing comes up.

Russia looks at them, smirks- and Germany knew he had been paying attention- _he knew it._ "Fredka, that wasn't nice."

America laughs. _"Everyone_ wants this- _Everyone wants what we have."_

When Germany finally finds the door handle, he doesn't walk- he _runs._ It isn't until he's halfway down the hall that he realizes he's forgotten his scarf.


End file.
